


With Violence, With Tenderness

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bar Room Brawl, Blood, Charles gets off on watching arthur punch people, Established physical relationship, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Swearing, is there always so much swearing in my prose? jesus christ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s not just anyone who can reduce Arthur to this. It’s not just anyone who can fight by his side and laugh with him and fuck into him-- not like this, not like Charles can. Not how Arthur lets him.//In which Arthur and Charles channel their leftover energy from a good ol' fashioned bar fight.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 19
Kudos: 215





	With Violence, With Tenderness

_ Maybe _ Arthur might've had one too many, but  _ maybe _ the bastard had it coming.  _ Maybe _ Arthur didn't like the way he'd been talking to Charles. Leering at the two of them like they weren’t worth the dirt he walked on. Brazen insult after brazen insult. Maybe he didn’t expect either of them to do anything about it.

Either way, the crunch of his nose under Arthur’s fist was  _ too goddamn satisfying.  _ It’s enough to snap the tension in the room and send the tipsy crowd into an all-out brawl, erupting into chaos with equal measures of drunken glee and reckless abandon. If Arthur wasn't busy punching the smug look off the bastard's face, he might've found the instantaneous riot funny. 

The man recovers though, and Arthur takes a punch to the gut and is momentarily winded-- Charles, bless his goddamn heart, pulls Arthur out of the way of a nasty kick aimed lower, and he recovers in a quick second, enough to push Charles off of him. Not that he isn't immensely grateful, he just wants to get to their aggressor and show him  _ just _ who he decided to mess with. 

Swing after swing lands, and all Arthur can feel is the burn of his muscles and the sharp pain in his knuckles-- a punch, a kick, duck to avoid a haymaker, send one flying back,  _ punch _ , one, two, one-- the man is too drunk to avoid any of his blows with anything like agility, too flabby in the arms and too soft in the middle. He can’t  _ touch  _ Arthur through that cloud of violence, sadistic and satisfying, blurring his vision, narrowing down his world to this singular bar fight.  _ God  _ this bastard has it coming. 

His thoughts flick to Charles, lost in the chaos at the periphery of his vision.

The man’s lost to his own brawl, drawn away by someone who mistakenly decided they could take on Charles--  _ Charles fucking Smith _ \-- and Arthur spares him only a glance when he finds him, knowing he'll be alright. A glance is all he needs; Charles is a blur of rage and wild fury, calculated and unmerciful, and the glimpse he catches is enough to send a shock of  _ arousal _ through Arthur. 

Bad move on his part, he's momentarily distracted, and the drunken piece of shit that started this-- the sonofabitch that spat all that vile bullshit about Charles-- has recovered enough to jab a fist into his side, right above Arthur's hip. The  _ one  _ good punch he’s gotten in all evening. Mother _ fucker. _

He roars in pain and swings blind, and the full force of his frustration culminates in an elbow to the man's jaw, and he finally goes sprawling.

Arthur's clearly won when he doesn't move to get back up. 

The scene rushes back to him as he straightens up, and it's not pretty. He scans the fray for Charles, finding him in a corner fighting off two men, one with a broken bottle in a clenched fist, splintered edges glinting dangerously in the oily lamplight. 

His heart surges  _ panic  _ as he crosses the room, unthinking, reaching, feels the rough wool shirt under his fingertips, catching on calluses, digging his fingers in and pulling the man back by his shoulder and punching,  _ hard _ . It connects to his jaw with a sickening  _ smack _ , and Arthur hits again with a  _ crunch _ , and he's probably knocked a few teeth loose. The bottle skitters to the floor and disappears into the fray, forgotten. The man stumbles to the floor, dazed, and Arthur takes the opportunity through the chaos to land a solid kick to his stomach, his rage and panic carefully controlled as Arthur stands over him, fists clenched at his sides and breathing hard. He groans, stays down.

Arthur spits. There's some blood in his mouth, some smeared on his face. He can't think of where it might've come from. He goes to wipe it off, but his knuckles are split, and they sting as they only leave more into his stubble. It’s uncomfortably warm on his skin, tight and cracking where it’s dried. 

His eyes trail Charles across the room, fighting like it's easy as breathing. He swallows thickly and all he tastes is iron.

Arthur's brought the fight down to a one-on-one for Charles, enough to bring the second assailant under control, landing a blow to his cheekbone and kicking him back hard enough to land him flat on his back. 

When it looks like he won't get up again, Charles meets Arthur's eyes, and something  _ electric _ passes between them. The hunter's breath hitches in his chest, and the shouting and the scuffling behind them is forgotten as their focus narrows down between only the two of them, the catch of their eyes and the mess they've made of themselves. The blood on Arthur's face, his blown pupils.

Arthur draws a breath, and the world speeds up again. Breathing heavily, Charles and Arthur move together on instinct, and clasp hands and head quickly as they can out the swinging doors.

"Let's get outta here," Charles mumbles, and Arthur barely hears him through the pounding in his ears, but he doesn't need to tell him twice. They unhitch their horses with uncoordinated fingers and swing up-- Arthur lets Charles take the lead, his hands are slippery with blood and sweat around the reins, his heart is still pounding, and all he can feel through the adrenaline is how he wants Charles to take his hand again-- and they leave town at a gallop, hoping the mess they've made of themselves isn't enough to arouse suspicion.

The world is a dark blur from horseback, and all Arthur can really focus on his Charles riding ahead, the  _ sight  _ he was back there. The scene replaying in his mind for almost a half mile.

Charles deems them far enough away, and they turn off into the thicket and he swings down from the saddle. Arthur's eyes trail him hungrily the entire way.  _ God _ , all he wants to do is kiss the thrum of violence from his lips, the blood from his knuckles, the bruises on his face.

They meet in the middle, and Taima and Spud prance back from their riders, unused to their urgency. 

"Shit, Charles," Arthur whispers breathlessly, unable to focus on much more than his lips on his own. 

Charles kisses him like the sky is falling, pulling back only to press his lips to Arthur’s again,  _ hard _ , a mess of teeth and tongue and the taste of blood, noses that were pressed too forcefully together but neither of them care to correct their angle. Fingers tangling in long hair, thumbs scratching over rough stubble, hot breaths between them and a fisted collar that pulls them back together for long minutes. They pull back to draw deeper breath, sweaty foreheads pressed together and Charles’ eyes skimming over the dried blood on his cheek, just off the corner of his mouth. Something stirs in him-- somehow his cock becomes even more insistent, and he brings him back to kiss him again,  _ hard _ .

"You look  _ good  _ in red," Charles whispers between kisses, and the sound of his voice alone has Arthur's cock twitching. He chuckles, a little breathless still.

"Bastard had it comin'," he says. He swallows thickly as Charles meets his eyes again.

"Hm," is all he says, before bringing up Arthur's right hand and examining it with his brows knitted in concern. 

"Sorry," Arthur mumbles. "Shouldn’t be fight’n on your behalf." 

Charles doesn’t argue. He simply smiles, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, and presses a kiss to the split akin and the bruising at Arthur's knuckles, and Arthur hisses. Charles does it again, and again to the other hand, despite it looking far better than its twin. 

“Bastard had it coming,” Charles echoes, voice a low rumble. He doesn’t look up, simply squeezes Arthur’s fingers.

" _ Charles _ ," Arthur whispers.  _ Pleading _ . 

Charles' eyes are dark when they meet Arthur's, and his lips glisten a black sheen of blood, parted and panting quietly. 

Arthur sucks in a breath, and what little self control he held is gone in the blink of an eye. Charles releases him, and he weaves his fingers through Charles' messy hair, gripping tight at the scalp. Arthur kisses him then, with all the urgency the adrenaline has left them with, and Charles responds in kind, slotting their bodies together and leaning into Arthur's embrace. 

Charles tastes like blood and heat and desperation, and the white-hot panic in Arthur's chest has quelled into something dimmer, warmer, settled low in his gut and made him so desperately  _ want _ . He grinds his clothed cock desperately against Charles’, tongue sliding slick against the hunter’s.

Charles pulls away to huff a breath in the space between them, looks into Arthur's clouded gaze, pressing his fingertips insistently into the swell of his ass, grinding their hips together. "How d'you wanna do this?"

Arthur's face flushes a deeper red, coming back down to earth at the low rumble of his voice. "How... However you want," he pants.

Charles frowns, slacking his grip just slightly. "Arthur."  _ Not good enough,  _ he’s implying.  _ Tell me what you want _ . Just the simplicity of Arthur’s  _ name _ .

Arthur only whines.

Doesn't think he even has the mental capacity right now to tell Charles what exactly he wants, beyond the vague concept of  _ relief _ . Friction. He wants  _ Charles _ .

Voicing as much doesn't get him far, just an exasperated look and a pinch on the ass.

"Fucker!" Arthur curses, squirming away from Charles.

Charles only laughs at him. "Not good enough, Arthur."

"Fuck,  _ shit.  _ I want-- I wan’chu to fuck me ‘till I can’t walk no more, I--  _ shit-- _ ” And Charles interrupts with another kiss, a smile barely contained. Another kiss, and another, another on his nose, and Charles’ enthusiasm is infectious. Arthur’s smiling against his own will, swept up in Charles and his lips, the taste of blood, the smell of sweat and the heat of his body against Arthur’s own. 

“Come-- come  _ on _ ,” Arthur laughs. He tries to push Charles off him, unsuccessful when his wrist is grabbed and his palm is kissed too. Charles is unrelenting in his assault. “Come  _ onnn, _ ” Arthur whines, still grinning, still only half-trying to fight him off.

“I love it when you try to talk dirty,” Charles grins. “Makes me laugh.”

“Eat shit, Charles,” Arthur says.

“What? It does.”

“Just fuckin’--  _ fuck me already _ , I didn’t spend all that time in the damn bathroom earlier f’r nothin’,” Arthur grumbles, and he’s finally got his face under control enough so he’s not smiling like an idiot. He moves easily to the forest floor, brushing aside a branch and beckoning Charles to sit with him on the pine needles and the dirt. He follows easily.

Charles leans into him, brushes the hair away from his sweaty forehead. “‘Till you can’t walk?” he asks, still smiling.

Arthur can’t help but mirror the expression, so sweet, so  _ rare  _ on Charles’ features. “Do I have to ask nicely?” he jokes.

“I’ll let you get away with it this time. You’re injured, see,” he replies, running a thumb over the split skin at his knuckles. Arthur hisses, and his cock jumps at the sharp sting of pain.

Charles does it again, to the same result. He can feel Arthur next to him, jerking his hips against what little friction his jeans provide, trying to make it seem like he’s less desperate than he is, trying to keep himself under control. Charles’ eyes darken, and Arthur knows he’s given himself away then.

“You like that?” he asks,  _ growls _ , as he rubs his thumb through the fresh blood, along the tendon there.

Arthur barely has it in him to swallow and nod, stiff as a board. 

Charles doesn’t say another word, just presses four fingers to his chest, right below his heart, and Arthur goes willingly to the ground.

They make quick work of their clothes, making a makeshift mat for Arthur to lay on (“dunno about you but pine needles up the ass don’t sound so appealing”), and Charles sweeps him up in another kiss, hot and wet and mostly focused on tweaking Arthur’s nipples, running his hands down his abdomen and just admiring him as he is, pliant and supine beneath him.

This isn’t a night to take it slowly, given the circumstances, but Charles likes to make sure Arthur’s comfortably stretched, properly slicked. 

Arthur’s anything but ill-prepared.

This is a dance they know well, the two of them, but the burn and stretch as Charles enters him thrust by thrust is always awkward, a little painful, a little foreign. It’s not the beginning that Arthur’s looking forward to anyways.

Charles on the other hand, can do little more than try to breathe as he watches Arthur writhe beneath him, stretched around his cock and sweating, trying to keep his breathing under control, muscles fluttering and hands gripping tight to Charles’ arm, anchoring them both.

“Arthur,” Charles says, breathy and soft on the  _ r _ ’s, and Arthur moans, rolls his hips. Charles doesn’t dare move, struggling to maintain his composure.

“Please,  _ please-- _ ” Arthur begs, “ _ christ _ , please keep goin’.” 

Charles shudders a breath, and complies.

Pushes slowly into Arthur, shifting and slick, taking it so goddamn  _ well _ . “ _ God, Arthur _ ,” he gasps when Arthur rolls his hips against him, and holds onto the leg wrapped around his thigh just to keep himself there. Arthur’s a sight below him, eyes screwed shut and bottom lip half-sucked under his teeth, a sheen of sweat and dirt and  _ blood  _ on his skin. His chest heaves as he adjusts to Charles, and Charles despite the low light, he doesn’t think he’s seen Arthur look better.

Arthur squirms again, seeking friction, and Charles has half a mind to just let himself give in, but he’s not a small man by any means.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes out, and smoothes a hand up the hair on Arthur’s chest. 

“You won’t,” Arthur answers immediately. He almost sobs at the slow slide of Charles’ cock inside of him. “ _ God _ , you won’t, you won’t--  _ please _ .”

Charles makes a questioning sound, nearly pulling out.

Arthur gasps, tightens his legs around Charles’ waist. “Harder,  _ goddammit _ ,” he growls.

A smile ghosts across Charles’ lips. It’s a rare treat, seeing this side of Arthur tonight. Desperate, whining,  _ trembling--  _ fresh off a bar fight, and although the anger in his features is gone, the afterimage of the violence in his eyes tightens something in Charles’ gut, and he thrusts up, punches out a sharp groan from Arthur’s swollen lips. 

It’s not just anyone who can reduce Arthur to this. It’s not just anyone who can fight by his side and laugh with him and fuck into him-- not like this, not like Charles can. Not how Arthur lets him. 

He thrusts again, working the slick onto his cock, and builds up a faster pace. He revels in it, the spreading warmth against the chill of the night, the unabashed keening sound that Arthur lets out. 

He thrusts, and  _ thrusts _ , and  _ thrusts--  _ harder,  _ faster _ , until Arthur’s starting to look a mess beneath him, sweaty and blood-soaked and  _ gorgeous. _

Arthur squirms, shifts a better angle against Charles. He’s panting properly now, eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed, and focusing on that singular point of friction between them. The sensation is  _ heat _ , all dulled pleasure and blessed friction. Charles’ arms braced between his armpits let Arthur anchor himself with his blunted nails, scraping desperately along his dark skin, the muscle over his back and shoulder blades. It’s not  _ enough _ .

“ _ Harder, harder, _ ” Arthur urges. 

Charles isn’t sure he can go much harder, but he tries.  _ God,  _ he tries. 

The only sounds that break the silence over the long moments are Charles’ grunts, the wet slap of their skin together, Arthur’s moans involuntarily punched out on every thrust. Charles’ knees shift, leveraging himself almost under Arthur’s ass, hands fisted into the shirts Arthur’s lying on. “Come on, Arthur,  _ come on _ ,” he says, though he’s not sure he can hear him past the racket he’s already making. 

“Nnngh--  _ ah _ ,” is all Arthur has the wherewithal to say as he clenches and unclenches around Charles. His cock working into him only hits his prostate enough to start driving Arthur mad, and he’s not going to get any real relief like this, no matter how he squirms, no matter how desperate he gets.

“Hol-- hold on-- fuck,” Arthur slurs, and Charles stops immediately.

“You good?” he asks, breathless. He runs a hand over his pec and rubs the stubble at his cheek, meets his clouded gaze.

Arthur clumsily shifts onto his knees, letting Charles slip out and biting his lip. He doesn’t have much motor control function at the moment, it seems all the blood has left his brain and gone straight to his dick. “‘M fine, jus’-- turnin’ over.” He leans into Charles’ touch regardless.

“Here,” he says, and takes Arthur by the waist to let him flop onto his hands and knees. Arthur immediately buries his head in his arms, leaning back, stretching his ribs. His ass is on full display like this, red and abused,  _ needy.  _

Charles’ mouth runs dry.

“‘Till I can’t walk no more,” Arthur mumbles against his forearm. 

“...Need more vaseline?” Charles remembers to ask.

“Naw. Keep goin’.” 

Charles bites the inside of his cheek and shuffles on his knees to Arthur, cock hanging heavy and neglected between his legs.

“You want me to touch you?” Charles asks, and his voice is dark with arousal.

Arthur shakes his head, pursing his lips. “Jus’ give it t’me, hard as you can.” There’s a bite to his words-- he’s growing impatient. Charles’ eyes slide up the line of his spine, holding back a snide remark. He’ll comply.  _ This time. _

He takes his cock in hand and holds the foreskin back with a thumb, strokes once, twice, before he guides himself to Arthur’s entrance and holds back a groan. Arthur’s tight around him, and he slides slick into him, bottoms out without hesitation.

Arthur buries his face fully into his arms, letting out a muffled moan.

Charles doesn’t beat around the bush, not again. He works up his pace again, pounding into Arthur, hands gripping the soft skin at his hips, thrusting, fucking into him as deep as he can go.

Arthur’s biting his arm now, the salt of his own sweat on his tongue, and he arches his back to get Charles’ cock  _ just right,  _ pounding against his prostate in that way that just feels like fucking  _ magic  _ working up his spine. 

He moans  _ loud  _ now, muffled slightly by skin and spit, and it’s music to Charles’ ears-- watching as he splays his legs, pushing back onto his cock, slicked with sweat and vaseline and fucking  _ desperation _ . He loves to see Arthur like this.

They keep going like that, and Charles ignores the pressure building in his own gut, simply watching evidence of Arthur’s pleasure take hold. His shoulders tense, a blush rising to his ears-- it’s a struggle to keep pushing against Charles’ cock in any sort of coordinated manner, and he damn near loses it when Charles leans forward to press his palm flat to the nape of his neck, pinning him there while Charles fucks him like he’s the center of his fucking universe.

“ _ God, Charles, please _ ,” Arthur moans against the makeshift mat, and he’s entirely unsure what he’s begging for. The way Charles is going, Arthur’s not going to last much longer. He hopes to god he doesn’t last much longer-- it feels so good it’s almost  _ agony _ .

“Arthur, Arthur,” Charles says like a mantra, and  _ finally,  _ fucking  _ finally,  _ he uses his grip on Arthur’s hips to manhandle him harder onto his thick cock,  _ using him, _ and a few moments of that is all it takes for Arthur.

He shouts against his arms, clawing desperately at the pine needles and the dirt while Charles fucks him like a  _ toy _ , violent and desperate and uncaring of anything but his own pleasure. Charles feels so goddamn  _ good  _ against him like this, and Arthur’s coming,  _ hard _ , shooting ropes onto their clothes, tensed and unseeing for a few precious seconds. 

He’s pretty sure his heart stopped.

It’s  _ wet,  _ Charles’ thrusts, and when he comes back down to earth, he realizes that the  _ feeling _ , the slow drag of Charles’ softening cock, must mean he came as soon as Arthur did, caught up in the tight clench of him, the waves of his orgasm around his cock. He cranes his neck to look at the hunter, and his heart flutters at the sight.

Charles looks wrecked, hair worked loose from its ponytail, sweat sliding down his forehead, pupils blown so wide he can barely see the whites of his eyes. Arthur huffs a breath, a sleepy half-smile. “You good?”

Charles works his mouth for a second, panting before any words are forthcoming. “Mmn. Yeah... Yeah.” He looks far away when he runs a hand up his ribs, admiring the hard muscles of his back, the shape of his ass where he’s still buried inside him. It catches him off guard, the way his heart swells in his chest, just looking at Arthur. Surprises him how easily the words  _ I love you _ rise to his lips. How hard it is to hold them back.

Arthur shifts, and Charles’ cock slides out, a bead of semen connecting for a split second. Charles stifles a noise of protest at the loss. Arthur flops onto his side, half on the makeshift mat and half in the pine needles. “ _ Shit _ .”

Charles follows him to the ground, wincing at his sore knees. A moment passes while they catch their breath, and Charles shifts uncomfortably on his back. 

“I think I’m lying in your jism,” he says flatly.

Arthur snickers, brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. “Sorry.” He stretches, rolls his ankles.

Charles smiles, a little grossed out. “It’s my shirt, isn’t it.”

“Prob’ly is.”

He groans, but doesn’t make to look. Hopefully he has something to cover it with in his saddlebags. Or maybe they can find a stream to wash up in the morning.

They lie like that, buck naked in the dark woods, and simply stare up at the night sky through the branches. The silence between them is comfortable, but pregnant with things unsaid. Eventually, Arthur shuffles over to press himself flush against Charles’ skin, a beacon of warmth in the chill night. His hand finds his wrist, and his fingers wind their way down to his palm, intertwine themselves with Charles’ fingers. His skin is rough here, and the calluses on his fingers, his palm, speak tomes about Charles. The man he’s pretty sure he’s in love with.

“Charles?” he asks. His voice is small. 

“Mm?” he responds, a little drowsy.

“Do you..?”

A beat.

“I mean, are we just...” Arthur trails off. Charles allows him a few moments to untangle his thoughts. He’s pretty sure he knows what Arthur’s asking, but he doesn’t hope to assume.

Arthur finally sighs. Draws a breath, steadying himself. “I think I love you.”

They’re both stock still, breathing so quiet they don’t make a sound.

Charles’ thoughts race, wide awake now, and he’s glad Arthur can’t tell he’s blushing, can’t see how the moisture wells up in the corners of his eyes. Doesn’t know what to  _ say _ .

“‘M sorry if I-- I mean, I thought--” Arthur stutters, and he’s panicking. The line of his spine is tense, and his hand leaves Charles’ empty.

Charles interrupts. “Arthur.” 

He freezes. “Hm?” It feels like his throat is closing up. He’s seconds from running, or punching him, or maybe crying.

A jest would be characteristic here, but Charles knows it would be inappropriate. He can’t bring himself to say anything more than a quiet, “ _ I think I love you too _ ,” and takes Arthur’s hand in his. “I really  _ really  _ do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Another Charthur oneshot! takes place whenever you want. Unbeta'd, as usual, but inspired and egged on by some friendly folks on discord when I couldn't get the idea of a bruised and bloodied Arthur out of my head. Who /wouldn't/ get turned on by that? 
> 
> Comments and kudos, as always, greatly appreciated! Love you all :')


End file.
